


No.

by MaryAnne615



Category: Casino Royale (2006), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Quantum of Solace (2008), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:31:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2133750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryAnne615/pseuds/MaryAnne615
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of stories based upon time hacks starting at the moment M falls into Bond's arms in the chapel at Skyfall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seconds.

No.

The word kept running through his mind, over and over, too fast for him to count the repetitions.

No. No. No.

In his excitement of having stopped Silva from killing her, his mind had not registered that she was leaning heavily to one side as she chided him for taking his time getting to the chapel. He hadn’t noticed that she was pale and breathing heavily, almost gasping as she spoke. But then again, she had just had a gun pointed at her head by a madman who had chased her halfway across the UK just to kill her, leaving a wide swath of death and destruction in his wake.

Then he saw her take a side step and start to teeter on one leg, leaning over impossibly far. His mind clearly registered that.

He barely caught her before she hit the hard stone floor. As he cradled her limp body in his arms he could already feel the life slipping out of her, could already see Death’s cold hand reaching for her, caressing her face and sliding bony fingers over her body ever so gently.

No. You can’t have her! 

He looked at Kincade with a questioning glance. The old man looked lost, bewildered. He hadn’t even known she was wounded until they had reached the chapel and she had finally asked to sit down. He didn’t even know her name, real or code. He called her ‘Emma’. Neither Bond nor M had corrected him. No reason to confuse the issue, there were too many other things to worry about.

“I suppose it’s too late to make a run for it…”

“I’m game if you are.”

Her voice was small and tight. She knew she was going to die. He could see it in her eyes. She knew that there was no escape for her from the chapel at Skyfall. She had probably known as he drove through the stone columns at the end of the long driveway that she wasn’t going to make it out of this alive. Silva was too powerful, too determined to end her days. She had probably known Bond would kill him, but that she would be collateral damage. 

She looked at him, looked him right in the eyes, like a mother would look at her son if he were in pain, dying.

“At least I got something right.”

Bond held her tighter.

No. M, you got so many things right. I’m not even sure I am right. Everything feels so wrong right now.

He could feel the life gradually slipping out of her. He could feel her heart beating against his arm; feel the pulse in her wrist gently pushing against his, the two sensations in sync. The interval between the beats was getting longer and longer, losing the rhythm that measured life. 

No. M, your heart needs to keep beating. Fight for this. Live.

He had heard that when death is imminent your whole life flashes in front of your eyes. But he couldn’t figure out why her life was flashing in front of his eyes, why his mind was replaying every scene, every moment, every drink, every argument of their years shared together.

Their first meeting. Her, the vaunted Chief of MI6, the legend that agents talked about in the hallways with hushed, whispered tones, occupying The Office on the 6th floor…an office few had seen and even fewer had actually entered. And him, the hot-headed young agent, filled with rage and anger and with a point to prove to her, to the service, to the world. She had briskly shook his hand and said ‘get to work’ before handing him a mission brief.

Many more such meetings over the years as she taught him how to be a proficient spy and he took on more and more responsibility. Her tongue-lashings when he screwed up, her praise when he was successful. 

Her finally promoting him to Double-O status. She had flagged him down in the hallway on her way to a meeting and casually said ‘congratulations, Bond, you’re a Double-O’ as if she were merely giving him her morning coffee order. She had walked away and disappeared into the conference room before he could even respond. 

Him breaking into her home and searching her computer, despite the fear that her husband would come home first and find him in the flat. 

The warm glow of the sun on her face in the Bahamas.

The cold steel in her voice and eyes as she first berated, then trusted, him in Bolivia. 

The snowflakes swirling around her in Kazan, Russia, the exact same color of her graying hair. He knew she had picked up the Algerian love knot necklace and put it in her pocket. He wondered where it was.

Her husky, cracked voice tickling his ear during high-stakes missions, almost like a lover whispering for him to come closer. But her commands were far different than those of a lover’s.

Take the bloody shot.

Death. His. But not real, not like this.

Him breaking into her home again. This time opening a bottle of her best whisky and unabashedly looking around her flat, opening drawers and closets, prying into her private life, safe in the knowledge that her husband wouldn’t arrive home first and catch him. 

Calling her a bitch, knowing that she was on the other side of the glass, listening. 

Stealing her away from London, hoping to keep her safe. 

No. Why didn’t she say anything when he had asked?

“You hurt?”

“Only my pride. I never was a good shot.”

He looked down at the blood covering her hands, deep and red, where she had tried desperately to staunch the flow of her own life from torn veins. He looked at the shine of blood on her coat and skirt. He could see the tears and rips in the coat where the bullet had shattered the cabinet she had used for cover and then brought shrapnel with it into her body. 

She was bleeding from so many wounds that it would have been impossible for her to survive without medical help. There wasn’t much blood in the chapel, none pooling underneath her. It had dripped out of her as she walked through the tunnel, across the moor, and into the chapel, leaving a trail right to her for Death to follow. 

Now Death was tugging at her, trying to take her away from him.

No, Death, you can’t have her. Not just yet.

He felt the warmth of her last breath tickling his nose. Then he felt nothing. No heartbeat. No pulse. 

No life.

She had died with her eyes open. He closed them. Her skin was warm and dry as paper. 

No.

He pulled her closer to him and kissed her forehead, his tears falling from his eyes, landing on her cheeks, her chin, her chest. He didn’t care. He pulled her closer. He didn’t want to let her go in the hopes that he would feel the warm mist of a breath against his forehead. 

He sees Kincade remove his hat and lower his head out of respect.

No.


	2. Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's now minutes since M succumbed to her injuries in the chapel at Skyfall. Events are unfolding fast and furious as the three men who loved M try to deal with their loss. 
> 
> This alludes to the story line in 'The End of the Beginning', which describes M's relationship with CIA Director Ian Smithson.

James Bond was still holding her in his arms, watching her facial features getting softer and more relaxed, feeling her body getting heavier, but afraid to put her on the chapel floor. He could already feel the emptiness approaching his soul as he realized he would never again hear the sharpness of her voice, never again learn something new from her, never again peer into the depths of blue that were her eyes. 

“Kincade…”

“I don’t know, James. I didn’t know. She never said anything. I know she was stumbling as we crossed the moor, but with the uneven terrain I just thought…” 

The old man moved closer to Bond and knelt beside him. He gently placed a hand on the side of her face, almost a lover’s caress. 

“There’s no blame, Kincade. Not for you. And there was nothing you could have done.”

“James, who are you?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who is she? And why did he want so badly to kill her?” Kincade asked, pointing to Silva’s body at the end of his question.

Bond could hear the distant rumble of helicopters in the distance, getting louder as the aircraft moved closer. 

Bond could only hope that the birds were MI6 and not more of Silva’s men. There was no way they could stop another wave of attackers, armed with incendiary devices and AK-47s, even if their crazed leader was dead. They no doubt had their orders and would ensure that there was no one left to tell this story.

“Kincade, I need you to go and look at the helicopters approaching and tell me if you see the markings somewhere on the aircraft. I need to know if they are good guys or bad guys.”

“What about…”

“Go!”

He watched Kincade stand and shuffle off in total confusion of what was going on around him. 

As Kincade went through the vestibule and out into the cold night air, his mind was trying to make sense of all that had happened since he first heard the dull roar of the Aston Martin being driven up to the front of the house. Once he had gotten over the shock of seeing a dead man walking through the door he had calmed down a bit, then he had become intrigued by the white-haired woman in the brown coat who had followed James into the dining room. He knew that she was someone important to James but he just couldn't figure out how she fit into his life. 

And in just a few hours he had gone from a lonely old man in a dark, old house, to the center of something he didn’t understand.

Bond, appearing out of nowhere and saying that some men were coming to kill them. Emma. Gathering weapons, building up the house for defense. Gunfire and explosions. Escape through the tunnel to the chapel. The destruction of Skyfall. The realization she was bleeding to death. Silva arriving at the church, Emma clearly his target. A gun at her temple. 

Then she was dead. And James cradling her in his arms, like a son holding his mother, trying to protect her from all that was evil. But Kincade knew that the woman in the brown coat was not his mother. 

And now there were more helicopters coming. Possibly more trouble. As Kincade stepped down the front steps of the chapel he could just barely make out the markings of the UK defense forces on the nose of the lead aircraft. He let out a visible sigh of relief and then noticed that one of the helicopters had the markings of the British Secret Intelligence Service.

He waited a few more minutes to ensure his eyes weren’t tricking him before returning to the chapel. By the time he reported back to James about the helicopters they were close to landing. James seemed relieved that the helicopters were the good guys. 

Kincade picked up the wool plaid scarf that he had given Emma earlier to help keep her warm and placed it over her body, covering her face. James didn’t seem to want to let go of her. In fact, he seemed in shock. Not at the death and destruction around them, but over the loss of the tiny woman in his arms. 

“James,” he asked, again kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his arm. “Tell me what’s going on. Who is she? And why did he want her dead?”

At this point Bond felt that Kincade was owed an explanation, even if it was short and to the point. He wanted to put M down, she was getting heavy and the muscles in his arms and legs were screaming. But he couldn’t let go of her. Not on the cold floor. And not until she could properly be guarded and watched over.

“I’m an agent for MI6. She was my boss. She,” he said simply, emphasizing the ‘she’ with a nod of his head in her direction, “is the head of MI6.” 

Kincade barely covered his shock at Bond’s words. This tiny woman, the head of UK’s spy agency? It didn’t seem plausible. He had watched her as she helped jury-rig the house in anticipation of the assault, expertly creating small bombs and handling a weapon. She had seemed smart and self-assured, but still…

“Emma is..?”

“It’s M. Just M,” Bond retorted, quickly and full of anger. The words were acid and burned his throat and mouth as soon as he said them. This wasn’t Kincade’s fault. In fact, Bond’s dear friend had done nothing but try to protect both of them, especially her, since they had arrived.

“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. Once wasn’t enough.

“It’s alright. I thought you said ‘M’ but that didn’t make sense, really. I’m an old man. ‘Emma’ seemed right for her, though.”

“Her name is Olivia Mansfield. She’s a widow, a mother, a grandmother, and now…” His words trailed off as he ran out of things to say about her. He wanted to cry more but he knew that the operatives from MI6 were about to come in. 

He finally released her body from his arms, laying her ever so gently onto the stone floor and ensuring that she remained covered by the scarf. 

“Kincade, stand up, next to me, and put your hands down by your side where they can be seen. This is about to get chaotic,” Bond instructed, knowing those about to come through the chapel’s doors would be heavily armed and looking for a fight. 

“Don’t make any movements whatsoever.”

“More chaotic than it has been?” Kincade smirked.

Bond stood next to his friend with M at his feet and within minutes agents and operatives were bursting in from the front and back doors of the chapel, yelling orders to the two men and pointing weapons at their heads.

Neither of the men moved. Bond saw one of them speak into his collar microphone. Then Bond saw Bill Tanner step through the crowd of agents, no doubt looking for his boss.

No. 

“Tanner…outside…” Bond tried to get Tanner away from M. He didn’t want him to see her like this, didn’t want him to find out that she was dead by seeing her damaged body lying on the cold floor. He wanted to tell him gently, ease him slowly into the blistered world where M was dead and everything was on fire. 

But it was too late. Tanner took in the scene, looking first at Bond, then at Kincade, then lowering his eyes to Bond’s feet. 

Bond knew the instant Tanner realized what he was looking at, what the wool scarf was covering.

“No,” Tanner squeaked. He looked at Bond, disbelief in his eyes. Tanner moved towards M and knelt beside her. Kincade moved to stop him but Bond’s hand on his arm assured him it was okay.

Tanner picked up her hand and caressed it. He didn’t speak for almost five minutes. The heavily-armed agents filling the church were shifting on their feet, unsure of what to do next. They, too, knew who was on the floor, but could never understand the emotions of the three men before them, one an agent, one a staff member, one a confused old man, all trying to deal with the pain of grief and loss. 

“When..?”

“Just a few minutes ago. Tanner, I’m sorry.” That was all Bond could manage to say to the one other man at MI6 who probably loved M as much as he did.

Then the medics arrived, breaking the spell.

~~~~~~~~~

Bond and Tanner sat next to each other on the aircraft, waiting for the pilot to start the engine. M’s body was behind them, wrapped in a body bag and blankets, away from prying eyes of agents and military personnel.

Bond had given Tanner a quick rundown of the day’s events but he could tell the man wasn’t registering what he was saying. Tanner had already called the Deputy Chief of MI6 as well as Gareth Mallory, head of the Security and Intelligence Committee. No doubt one of those men had already informed the Prime Minister of her death. 

Tanner’s phone was ringing. He looked at the number.

“Bloody hell.”

“Who is it?”

“Director Smithson.”

Ian Smithson, Director of the American CIA, M’s longtime friend and, after the death of her husband, lover. No doubt calling from America wanting to know where she was.

“Don’t answer. He doesn’t need to know this yet. It’s getting late in Washington…”

Tanner was shaking his head.

“He’s here. Well, in London. He got on a plane when he was told about the shooting at the hearing.”

Tanner answered the phone.

“Sir, hello.” 

Bond watched as Tanner listened to the questions that were coming through the phone, rapid-fire and full of energy, then watched as Tanner visibly wilted under the barrage of questions. He reached over and took the phone away.

“Sir, this James Bond,” he said, cutting into the Director’s words.

“Bond, what is going on? Where is she? Let me speak to her, now!”

“Sir, that is not possible.”

“Why? Where is she?”

Bond didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say. This was a third man who loved M but at a level that was personal and intimate in a way that Bond and Tanner could never have experienced with her. Bond didn’t really care for Smithson, but he didn’t want to be cruel to him, either. He was about to break the man’s heart, shatter his world with news that nobody wanted to hear.

“I’m sorry, sir…there was nothing…there was nothing we could do,” Bond said simply, hoping that the man would pick up on his meaning.

“What? What do you mean? Bond, where the fuck is she?” In his anger and frustration Smithson had not understood a word Bond had said. 

“Sir, she is dead.” 

There, he said it. Tanner heard him, Kincade heard him, Smithson heard him, the crew heard him. And Bond finally heard himself say the words. 

M was dead. The finality of his words was painful. Tanner hung his head, a tear dropping onto his trousers. Kincade looked away. The pilot and co-pilot’s hands froze in mid-air above controls. 

Bond heard stunned silence on the other end of the phone, silence that was dense and heavy, heavier than M’s body had been in Bond’s arms. 

“Bond…”

“I’m sorry, sir. She suffered a gunshot wound and bled out before…before the medics could get to her.”

“And Silva?”

“Dead.” 

The phone call ended abruptly. Bond gave the phone back to Tanner who turned it off before putting it into his bag. There would be no more phone calls tonight. 

The pilot started the aircraft’s engine and within a few minutes they were lifting off the ground. Bond looked down at the church below him, still lit by the dying pyre that was once his family home.

Bond knew he could never return to Skyfall, no matter the outcome of all this. He had wanted to leave when his parents died here and now, years later, the only other person besides Kincade he had given a damn about had also died here. He had brought her here to save her, to protect her from the danger that was Silva. Instead, she had died after suffering immeasurably. Bond’s anger at himself for failing to protect her was growing. He had screwed up many times before and after becoming a Double-O but he had always had M to keep him in line. And now she was gone. Bond felt lost, abandoned, much as he felt when his parents left him as a small boy. Perhaps even more. 

He loved her more than he had loved his parents. Or at least the memory of his parents. 

The chapel was getting smaller and smaller in the window of the aircraft until Bond could no longer see it. He could only see the faint orange of dying flames. 

Then it was dark.


	3. Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seconds have turned into minutes. Minutes have now turned into hours. No longer at Skyfall, Bond find himself face-to-face with Mallory and Smithson as he is asked to tell his story of what happened.

Bond woke suddenly, unsure of where he was. There were no lights on in the room, only peripheral light shining in through the glass walls. 

Glass walls. He was in M’s office, the one she had occupied after Silva had blown up her office at the MI6 headquarters. The old World War II underground area that was serving as the temporary headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service until their regular building could be repaired. And secured. 

He looked at her desk, some papers strewn about. Across the back of her chair was a coat. At Skyfall she had worn a brown coat. This was gray, but feminine, obviously hers.

And Jack. Glaring at him, almost accusingly.

Stupid bulldog. He could see the crack in the figurine’s face where she had tried to piece it back together after the explosion. Bond was amazed that it had even survived. 

But no matter what he saw of hers in the room, it wasn’t her office. He had few memories of her here, unlike the Vauxhall Cross headquarters, where he had interacted with her for years. Perhaps it was a blessing...he wasn’t sure if he could bear being in that office without her. 

Outside the glass walls he could see personnel around desks, a flurry of movement as men and women answered phones, typed on their computers, talked with one another, no doubt discussing the fact that this office was empty because their chief was dead.

Dead. M was dead. With that thought Bond’s chest tightened and the world became a little darker, a little heavier, a little emptier. 

Then he realized he wasn’t alone.

A dark silhouette was to his left, slumped in a chair, snoring softly. Bond waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness before he looked hard at his neighbor.

Bill Tanner.

Bond stood up and looked at the time. Just after 6 a.m. M had been dead for about 9 hours. The helicopter with M’s body had arrived back in London after a long, exhausting flight. Not to mention cold. To preserve M’s body, the pilots had flown with the side door open, freezing all the occupants, dead and alive. 

Thankfully the pilots had given Bond a clean, dry flight suit to wear before they left, to replace his wet clothes. The flight had been uneventful, somber. Nobody had a headset on anyway, there was no need to talk.

At the hospital the helicopter had been met at the landing pad by Mallory, Smithson, medical personnel and a few agents that Bond recognized. And one man that he didn’t.

Tanner had told him later that the tall man in the dark suit was M’s oldest son, Derek. Her two other children were on their way from their homes in Manchester and New York City, only Derek lived close enough to greet the helicopter. 

Smithson had said nothing to Bond as he went straight to the helicopter to watch the medical personnel retrieve M’s body. The space was confined, it was difficult to maneuver her. Bond could see Smithson getting anxious, then angry. Nobody had the nerve to talk to him, to try and calm him down, not even Derek, who had moved forward to watch but was still standing behind the CIA director.

“I want to see her,” Bond could see Smithson mouth to the medical examiner.

“Once we do a full...”

“No, once we’re inside,” Smithson cut him off. Bond moved to step forward and remind Smithson that he wasn’t in America, that he had no jurisdiction here, but Mallory caught his arm. Looking at Bond he shook his head. 

‘Leave him be’ was the unspoken comment. 

Bond held his gaze for a moment, then turned on his heels and left.

Back at MI6 Bond gently shook Tanner.

"Time to get up."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What happens now?” Bond asked Tanner, later, after all the lights were turned on and the flurry of men and women working was now a blizzard. There were people everywhere.

Tanner looked at him, his eyes bloodshot.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be doing,” he replied. His voice was soft, helpless. Bond wanted to do or say something to help, but he didn’t know what.

Bond had no idea what was going on. It was now almost noon and nobody had spoken to either of them about what happened. 

Kincade was safely tucked into a hotel, still trying to figure out everything that had happened. Bond felt sorry for him, felt he was owed more of an explanation than he had already gotten. 

At MI6 headquarters, Bond was waiting for someone to ask him what had happened, what had led to M’s death. Mallory, or Smithson, or H, the deputy director of MI6. But nobody had said anything. Bond didn’t even know where any of those people were. Probably in secret meetings somewhere, deciding his fate.

“I shouldn’t have gone to Scotland. I should have stayed here, found a safe house for her in the city.” Bond heard the words but couldn’t tell if he had said them out loud or in his own mind. 

“You did what you thought was best for her safety, and to capture Silva,” Tanner responded. Bond had spoken out loud.

“She trusted you, Bond, completely.”

“And do you honestly think she would have gotten in the car with you if she didn’t?” Tanner asked him.

Bond thought hard.

No. She wouldn’t have gotten into the car with him if she didn’t believe that Bond was going to do everything he could to protect her and take down Silva. 

He clarified in his own mind he didn’t say that he would protect her, only that he would do everything in his power to protect her. And he knew that was her reasoning as well, that sometimes people died on missions.

She knew the risks. She’d been playing the game long enough. They both had. 

“Where is everyone? Mallory? Smithson? H?”

“I don’t know. Nobody’s sent me a message or said anything to me,” Tanner said, the frustration obvious in his voice.

“They’re in the main conference room, which is actually an old storage room but the only place large enough to seat a large group,” a voice said over Bond’s shoulder.

He turned to see Eve standing about ten feet away, a pile of folders in her hand. Her face was taught, stressed. 

“No doubt deciding my fate,” Bond said.

“Probably. But there also needs to be a chain of command in place now that M is...” her voice trailed off as she realized she had walked into a sentence that had no proper finish. 

“Dead. Say it.”

Bond’s voice was harsh.

“H, of course, is the interim chief, but for the long-term, decisions have to be made,” Eve continued, stepping around Bond’s words. 

At the sound of footsteps behind him Bond turned away from her. Mallory, approaching from the long hallway that led to the main conference room.

“Bond,” he said gently.

“Mallory,” he responded.

“We’d like to see you in the conference room, please,” he said.

“Who?”

“Don’t ask questions, Bond. You’re not really in a position to argue and question decisions that are being made,” Mallory said, indicating to Bond that he needed to just get to the conference room. Now.

Bond turned and followed Mallory down the hallway, knowing that the next few hours of his life would be very difficult.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Bond sipped the whisky slowly, enjoying its warm taste on his tongue. The last time he had had whisky was at M’s house. He’d found her best bottle of Macallan. Instead of pouring it into a glass he had chosen to sit on her dining room window sill and drink directly from the bottle, waiting for her to return. 

The meeting hadn’t gone as bad as Bond thought it would. He recognized most of the faces in the room. There were a few he didn’t know. 

Smithson continued the glare that he had given Bond on the hospital landing pad, almost as if there hadn’t been almost 12 hours between that time and now. Bond got chills looking at him. Smithson had already once ordered a ‘Capture or Kill’ on Bond, one that M had thankfully defied. He wondered if he was going to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for Smithson or one of his operatives.

Someone turned on a voice recorder. Mallory’s voice came from behind him. 

“Tell us what happened, Bond. No one will interrupt you or ask questions until you are finished. Leave nothing out, no matter how...” Mallory’s voice shifted. Smithson coughed.

“No matter how ugly,” he finished.

Bond spoke for almost two hours. True to his word, Mallory ensured that no one interrupted him. He didn’t speculate, didn’t elaborate, just reported what he had seen, what he had done, how the events of the day had unfolded.

He saw Smithson flinch as he spoke of the gunfight where M had aimed her pistol and fired. Bond explained that that was when she was hit, but chose to act as if nothing happened.

Bond didn’t say the words to exonerate himself, to alleviate the guilt of what had happened. He wasn’t trying to make it M’s fault. It’s just what happened.

He saw Smithson put his head in his hands as he spoke of running into the chapel and seeing Silva with M in his arms, her head tilted all the way back, Silva’s gun at her temple. 

He saw Smithson leave the room as he spoke of her falling into his arms, her last breath. 

He didn’t give them her last words, his final moment with her. Her acknowledgement that she had done something right was his and his alone and nobody would ever take that away from him.

Or take away from her by challenging what the ‘something’ was that she said she had gotten ‘right’. 

‘I suppose it’s too late to make a run for it’ became M’s final words that would be entered into the record and sealed away with the rest of the evidence against Silva that would never see the light of day, never see a courtroom. There was no one left to convict. 

Now he was at home, a mere 24 hours after her last breath, sipping whisky and trying to relax and get to sleep. But he knew deep down inside it would be a long time before he would sleep soundly again. 

In the meantime, he was ordered to sit by his phone and wait.

Wait for what, Bond didn’t know.


	4. Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's now been days since M fell into Bond's arms and succumbed to her wounds. Bond's head is not clear as he stumbles through conversations with Ian Smithson, M's family, and Bill Tanner. 
> 
> And the funeral.

Bond approached the front door of M’s flat quietly, checking for signs of life. 

Since her death, Bond had been walking in a fog, trying to piece together everything that had happened since he had escorted her body back to London. As he walked through the halls of MI6 he felt as if everyone were looking at him with anger and hatred...he could feel the eyes of fellow employees boring into him, penetrating his skin and making him itch. 

But no one could match the anger and hatred he felt for himself for having let MI6, and her, down. 

At her flat, he had just started to override the code to the cypher lock when the door was pulled open from the inside. Instinctively he drew his weapon; he knew that her children were elsewhere and that nobody should be in the house. 

He instantly recognized the figure standing in the doorway, barely visible in the glare of the front porch light. There were only dim lights on in the house behind the man.

Ian Smithson. 

The Director of the CIA, and M’s lover, standing in the shadows, holding a highball glass in his hand. And Bond was pointing a loaded pistol at his head.

“Bond, come in,” he said casually, as if inviting him into a cocktail party, ignoring the gun.

Ian stepped aside to let him in.

“How did you know I was out here?” Bond asked, holstering his pistol.

“I saw you on the security cameras. What are you doing here?” he asked as he closed the door. 

Ian reached for the wall switch and turned on the overhead light in the hallway, the bright illumination making him wince. He had been sitting in the dark for a long time. 

To Bond, the man looked like hell. He probably had not slept since he arrived in London, which had been about the time Bond and M had reached Scotland. 

Bond wondered if M would have agreed to come with him if she had known Smithson was already on a plane, already on his way to see her, to save her.

“I…I just wanted to be near her, I guess. I don’t know,” Bond said. For some reason, Bond felt as if he should hang his head in shame although he didn’t. But he also couldn’t look Smithson in the eyes. All too clearly he remembered his glare from the helicopter landing pad, and the conference room at MI6. 

“What are you doing here?” Bond added, a bit suspiciously.

Ian snorted.

“I live here, Bond.” 

Bond cocked his head at Ian, questioning him. Ian stepped around him and went into the living room. He turned on another light switch and sat on the couch.

Bond followed him into the room. It was warm, with a fire in the fireplace and some candles burning on the mantle. From somewhere soft music was playing, an artist Bond didn’t recognize.

Suddenly Bond was surrounded by her and the sudden rush of her made his heart beat faster, made his head start to wobble. Her black coat on the back of the chair, her scarf lying in a colorful puddle on the floor where it had fallen from the chair. A small pair of black shoes next to the couch where she had no doubt kicked them off as she arrived home late one evening and got comfortable before getting back to work. Books and papers spread out on the dining table awaiting her return and approval. He could smell her perfume. For a second he could thought he could hear her voice calling out from another room. 

It took Bond about a minute to refocus on the man that had surprised him at the front door.

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand. I know that you and M were lovers, but I didn’t realize…”

“I don’t mean I live here permanently, Bond. But I’ve always stayed here with her when I visit and this time is no different. I keep clothes here. Don’t worry, her children know.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. 

After five minutes of heavy stillness, Ian stood up and walked past Bond, heading into the kitchen.

“Hungry? I just made some dinner. There’s plenty,” Ian said, motioning for Bond to follow him.

Bond shrugged a simple ‘yes’ and took off his coat. This evening was going to be very interesting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later the two men were still sitting at the dining room table, the empty plates of linguini and salad in front of them. What wasn’t empty were their wine glasses. Those had stayed full during dinner and were still full. Bond counted at least two empty bottles of wine on the table. He thought there might be one more in the kitchen but he couldn’t remember.

The dinner conversation had been light, dancing around what was on both of their minds, hanging on the ends of their tongues. 

Two men, completely wrapped around her but completely unable to deal with the loss of her.

Eventually they ran out of unimportant topics to discuss and finally started to talk about the big, gaping hole growing in the middle of their lives.

“It’s ironic, you know,” Ian said. “She didn’t even want the Hong Kong station. She had turned it down twice before she accepted, and even then it was under extreme duress.”

“What happened?” Bond’s interest was piqued at information that he had not found in M’s classified file.

“She was at a crossroads in her career and her life, I guess. Her oldest son was reaching college age and her husband was deeply entrenched in practice at London Hospital. Going to Hong Kong would have either uprooted her family or separated her from them,” Ian said, reaching for his wineglass. He took a long sip, as if the wine could help replenish the memories from so long ago while blocking out the newer, painful ones.

“Of course, turning it down would have been career suicide for her.”

“You did it,” Bond said, knowing that Ian had had the same decision to make when offered the assignment in Hong Kong...uproot his wife and daughter or be separated from them.

“Yes, but I am a white man in a world run by white men. She was a woman in a world, in a career, run by white men. Big difference.” 

“What changed?”

Ian had a faraway look in his eyes. He took another long, slow sip of his wine. For a moment Bond thought he didn’t hear him ask the question. He was about to repeat it when he heard Ian speak.

“Her husband had a 23-year-old receptionist that he couldn’t keep his hands off of,” he said quietly.

Bond let the words sink in at a slow pace, not really sure if his wine-soaked brain had completely understood what Ian had just said.

“Within 48 hours of finding out about the affair she was in Hong Kong. She was so unprepared, had come so quickly, that my wife, Celia, and I let her stay with us until she could get settled in. The first time I ever met her face-to-face was when she knocked on my door at 2 a.m., rain-soaked and wearing clothes she’d had on for 3 days.”

“She just up and left her husband? Her family?”

“Yes. I think her children hated her for a few years after that. Hated her for abandoning them like that. I guess they’d already felt abandoned with her devotion to Queen and country and her leaving for Hong Kong just made it worse.”

“Didn’t they hate their father for cheating on her?”

“They didn’t know until a few years later, long after she returned to England.”

“I didn’t know this…” Bond whispered. He had searched through M’s files before. He knew her entire career progression, how she had worked her way up through the ranks before becoming the Chief of Station in Hong Kong. How her work through the transition back to the Chinese went well, earning her the coveted spot of Chief of MI6 and a code name comprised of the first letter of her last name.

“For the first 3 months Celia and I had to watch her. She was on the verge of working herself to death. We would have to go to her offices and force her to go home. Sometimes we’d sit with her to make sure she didn’t just continue to work at home.

“After six months Emmett realized he was a fool and joined her in Hong Kong. He brought their two youngest children with them. Derek stayed behind in London to attend university.”

Ian paused for a moment, the memories from so long ago taking their time coming back into sequence in his brain.

“I won’t lie. I wanted to kill him the first time I saw him. Make him pay for what he had done to her.”

Bond stared at him while he spoke, knowing that the CIA director was telling him information that nobody else knew. And the more Ian talked, the more Bond realized that the man had been in love with M for a very long time. While she was still Olivia Mansfield. While her husband was still alive. While his own wife was still alive.

Their physical relationship might have only started a few years ago, but the love affair, even if it was unspoken and unrequited, began the moment Ian Smithson had opened his door in Hong Kong to an emotionally devastated Olivia Mansfield.

“In the end, they were a stronger couple and a stronger family. All that happened only drew them closer together, especially the bond she had with her daughter,” Ian said.

Suddenly Bond wanted to change the subject. He didn’t like getting this entrenched in Ian’s personal life, even if it was M’s personal life. He didn’t like finding things out about M through Ian’s interaction with her. He wanted to save the memories he had of her as whole and intact and not diluted them with someone else’s. 

“Did you know Silva? Did you meet him?”

Ian looked up quickly.

“Yes. The man was brilliant. One of the best I’d ever seen, US or UK. I was actually jealous the Brits had such an agent and I didn’t.”

Bond listened quietly while Ian continued to talk about Tiago Rodriguez. How he had unearthed information on the Chinese government that the CIA could never have found, no matter how hard they had looked. How deeply Olivia had trusted him. Then how that trust had started to turn to suspicion then eventually anger and mistrust. How one day Rodriguez had just disappeared. How soon thereafter six MI6 agents had miraculously re-appeared. 

“I asked her where he had gone. She never answered me. I didn’t press.”

Ian swirled the wine in his glass.

“I know that Rodriguez was crazy about her. Would have done anything for her. And she used his affection for her to get what she wanted.”

Bond must have reacted without even being aware he did.

“No, Bond, they weren’t lovers. Olivia Mansfield was many things. Stupid wasn’t one of them. But she was fond of him. And she trusted him,” he said, looking Bond right in the eye. 

Bond shifted in his chair, not sure if he was liking where the conversation was going.

“She trusted you, too, Bond. Explicitly.”

Bond didn’t know how to react. He wasn’t sure if Ian’s words were coming from his observations of interactions between Bond and M, or if they were coming from something M might have said to him.

“I loved her,” Bond blurted out quickly, not even sure where the words came from or why he even said them to this man, M’s friend and lover.

“I know.”

“But not like that.”

“I know that, too.”

Ian laughed out loud and shook his head.

“What?” asked Bond, his interest in Ian’s actions piqued.

“Sometimes, Bond, I wish you could have known her the way I did. How warm and gentle she was. The sound of her laughter at a good joke. The way her body felt snuggled against mine after we made love.” 

Bond felt helpless as he listened to him speak about M in ways that Bond could never have understood. He didn’t know the woman Ian was speaking about and frankly, he didn’t care to know her that way. He picked up his glass and swirled his wine, hoping to distract Ian from the direction the topic had taken.

He was successful. 

“Bond,” Ian said gently, quietly. “I know you feel guilty about what happened to her...”

Bond started to stand up. Although it was a different topic, it was one that he did not want to discuss with this man. He wanted to leave.

But Ian grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. 

Ian was much stronger than he looked. 

“But she trusted you. She would never have gotten into the car with you if she hadn’t trusted you.”

Bond looked deeply into the eyes of M’s lover, her confidante, her long-time friend. In the back of his mind he wondered what their pillow talk must have been like. He brushed the thought away quickly. 

“You’re the second person to say that to me.”

“Then you should believe it.”

For several minutes neither of them spoke. Then Ian stood and started clearing the dishes. As he left the room with dirty plates in his hands, he looked over his shoulder at Bond.

“Time for you to leave.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day of M’s funeral started out cold and gray but by the time the mourners reached the cemetery the sun had come out.

But it was still cold.

During the service in the chapel Bond had sat next to Tanner. Both men were still and silent, not offering a eulogy or speaking to her family.

Tanner explained the family dynamics to Bond. Her two sons and one daughter, their respective spouses and children. M’s younger sister who looked like her but had chosen to dye her hair red and wear too much make-up. There were many others there that Tanner couldn’t identify but Bond figured were friends of her late husband’s, judging by their age and their vanity license plates that identified them as physicians.

Ian sat in the front pew with the family. His own daughter, Holly, had crossed the Channel from Paris and sat next to her father, holding his hand and whispering occasionally into his ear. Bond wondered if any outside of the family even knew who Ian was, what his role was in this drama, if they even knew who he was. 

Of course, they didn’t know who Olivia Mansfield was. They probably thought all those people in long, dark coats in the back of the chapel were distant relatives or friends, completely unaware that they were a mixture of MI6 mourners and CIA bodyguards. 

As the service went on and more and more people spoke about their lives with and memories of Olivia Mansfield, Bond came to a sudden, sad, realization about M.

No matter how many missions they had worked together, no matter how many long evenings they had spent working in close proximity to one another, no matter how many times she had whispered silky words into his ear, he, too, didn’t know who she was. 

As one after another went to the podium to speak, he realized he didn’t know the woman that the people were speaking about at all. 

He didn’t know that she liked early jazz music, vanilla ice cream, or rice pudding. He didn’t know that her favorite flowers were roses and lilies and that she was an avid gardener with a backyard filled with both types of flowers. 

He knew what type of scotch she liked, that she favored black in her choice of suit colors, and that she hated sitting next to the window on airplanes. That was about it.

Eventually the service ended and Bond moved to leave the chapel. At the door, one of M’s grandsons approached him. A small boy, about 5, with curly black hair and big blue eyes. He just stood in front of Bond, looking up at him with his mouth wide open. 

“So sorry, so sorry,” came a woman’s voice over Bond’s right shoulder. M’s daughter, Charlotte, came up quickly and took the boy’s hand.

“He’s just all over the place, trying to figure out what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s alright. Bond. James Bond,” he said, extending his hand.

“Charlotte Mansfield.”

Bond started at her name, a look she picked up on.

“I know. I took my mother’s name instead of my dad’s. I did that when I started medical school and didn’t want to be pegged as ‘Emmett Whitstone’s daughter’. Save us all some embarrassment if I flunked out,” she said.

“Which I did.” She smiled at Bond. Her smile, but from a much younger face.

“I take it you’re from the agency? Sitting next to Tanner?”

“Yes.” 

Bond took a moment to look closer at the younger version of M. A few inches taller and with the same dark, curly hair as her son. 

And her eyes. Those so familiar eyes of M’s, looking at Bond and the world with the same cold hardness that M had. But those blue eyes were red and puffy, a look he had never seen on M. 

In her arms the boy squirmed, eager to be let down, perhaps to search for the grandmother whose name he kept hearing, but couldn’t find.

“This is Oscar. Oscar, meet Mr. Bond,” she said.

The boy looked at Bond, then jumped down from his mother’s arms and fled the chapel. Frustrated, Charlotte bid farewell and chased after him, leaving Bond on his own to find his way to the cemetery.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the graveside ceremony Bond and Tanner had stayed in the background, unable to see or hear anything. Finally the crowd started to move away, giving the men an opportunity to pay their final respects. Tanner took only a few minutes then walked away quickly.

Bond approached the grave site slowly, hating the finality of seeing her coffin, draped in her favorite flowers, hovering over the hole covered with fake grass. The cemetery workers wouldn’t lower it until the family was gone. Bond wondered if he could stay and watch, make sure that she made it safely into her final resting place.

“Good-bye, M. I’ll miss you.”

Those were the only words his mind could come up with and Bond wasn’t even sure if he had spoken them out loud or only in his mind. For several moments he stood still, wanting his final moments with her to last longer. At the bottom of the hill he could see her family getting into the cars to head back to her flat for the wake. 

He saw Ian turn around and look back at the grave site. He caught Bond’s eye and nodded. That broke the spell and Bond turned to leave. Then he stopped and looked at the small square of English soil that M would call home for eternity. 

It was a family plot. About 10 tombstones were in the small area, most with the name ‘Whitstone’ and with birth and death dates going back to the early 1800s. 

M and her husband shared a double tombstone. One side was complete:

Emmett James Whitstone  
April 9, 1933 – January 1, 2009  
Loving Father and Husband

The other side was unfinished and needed a date of death:

Olivia Louise Mansfield  
December 9, 1934 –  
Loving Mother and Wife

He noted another grave on the left side of the plot: 

Allen Emmett Whitstone  
March 19, 1963  
Known only to Angels

Charlotte was by his side and following his gaze to the small marker with only one date on it.

“My older brother. He was born with a genetic defect. He only lived a few hours.”

The sadness Bond felt in the chapel doubled, making him even colder. He never knew that M had given birth to four children but lost one. Something else that wasn’t in her file. He realized again how much he had cared for her, had respected her and had wanted to take care of her when her back was against the wall and evil was closing in on her. 

But that he hadn’t known her at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, at the pub, Bond and Tanner had already worked their way through one bottle of scotch. A second was on its way from the bartender. 

Tanner looked ready to just fall apart. Bond wanted to comfort him but knew that he wasn’t capable. His own pain and grief was overwhelming him, keeping him from reaching out to the man. 

“Christ, Tanner, I didn’t know anything about her,” said Bond between gulps of scotch.

“You knew more about her than I did,” Tanner responded.

“I find that impossible to believe.”

Tanner looked at him with incredible sadness in his eyes. 

“Just because I worked with her for hours almost every day for years doesn’t mean I knew her, Bond. She was very private, and kept her personal life out of the office,” Tanner said, an edge of anger in his voice. Bond wasn’t sure if that anger was directed at him, or the work life he had shared with M where there really hadn’t been much sharing.

Tanner looked at the bottom of his glass

“Bond, I didn’t even know her name. Not until today, when I was handed the funeral program at the chapel. Imagine that. I worked with her all those years. Took care of her. Managed her days down to the minute. I respected her. I loved her. And I didn’t even know her fucking name.”

Bond was shocked. 

“What?” he stammered. “You didn’t..?”

“I didn’t know her name. I never asked, she never offered.”

Tanner took a long sip of scotch, straight from the bottle.

“And I didn’t hack her file, Bond.”

Bond had to snicker at Tanner’s knowledge of Bond’s actions. 

“You knew all the right secrets, Tanner.”

The bottle went back and forth between them, both men now foregoing glasses and just taking swigs straight from the bottle.

“So, what happens now?” Bond finally asked.

“Well, I’m still Chief of Staff. Just not sure who I’m working for,” Tanner said.

“Any ideas? Any rumors?”

“I’m guessing it’s going to be Gareth Mallory.”

“That prig?”

Tanner looked up at him.

“That prig saved her life, Bond. Don’t forget that. When the shooting first started at the hearing, before you got there. Silva had her in his sights, had a gun pointed at her head. She stared him down. He fired. Mallory pushed her out of the way. And then he distracted the PM while Q laid your trail of breadcrumbs.”

Bond looked at Tanner, once again shocked at the man’s words. He knew Mallory had been shot at the hearing, but had not been told he had taken the bullet to protect M. He started to think of Mallory in a new light, wondering perhaps if the man might be worthy of the big office on the 6th floor of MI6 after all. 

“Well then,” Bond said. “I guess we’re going to have to get used to a new M.”


	5. Weeks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing in the aftermath of M's death, MI6 adds her name to the memorial wall in the newly-repaired MI6 Headquarters. Bond meets up with Charlotte, M's daughter. He also meets with the new M, starting out on a mission to keep the United Kingdom safe. Life goes on.

Stupid bulldog. 

Bond looked at the cracked mongrel as it sat in the middle of his table, glaring at him, mocking him. 

‘You’re interior decorating tips have always been appreciated, Bond.’ 

He could still hear her voice, plain as day, crackling in his ear, the sarcasm dripping thickly from her voice as she had read over his test results. 

Today was M’s memorial ceremony, the day her name, now carved into the memorial wall, would be revealed. He was invited, of course, but he didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to be in the building without her in her office, waiting for him.

But he would go. For her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All of the chairs in the atrium in front of the memorial wall were filled, as was every inch of the hallways leading to the atrium. Every employee of MI6 who could get away from their desk for an hour was there. She might have been anonymous, but she was respected. Bond noted that most of the attendees’ eyes were puffy and red. Many were outright crying.

Bond had been surprised to hear that the service was in the MI6 Headquarters at Vauxhall Cross. When he arrived he was amazed at what he saw...the building was about 80% repaired. All of the exterior was finished, only some of the interior offices still needed repair. Most of the sensitive work was still over at the temporary underground facility but for the most part, spying had returned to the Headquarters.

Bond saw Tanner, sitting in the front row next to Charlotte, M’s daughter. He looked in shock. He looked hung over. Bond hurt for the man, trying to adjust to the loss of a boss he had loved and the gain of a boss he didn’t yet trust. 

Bond was happy to see Charlotte again, this time without her rambunctious son. All of M’s children were there to attend the ceremony. Bond recognized Derek, the man that he had seen at the helicopter pad that night at the hospital, and Samson, whom he had seen at the funeral but not spoken with.

Gareth Mallory, now promoted to Chief of MI6, had worked tirelessly to get her name quickly put on the memorial wall in the hallway just past the lobby, even before the building repair was completely finished. The wall listed all of those who had given their lives in the service of Queen and country.

But as hard as he had worked to get her name on the wall, he had worked even harder to get the name ‘Tiago Rodriguez’ struck off, just as she had promised she would when she spoke to him in his crystal cage at the temporary headquarters of MI6. He looked for the man’s name but couldn’t find it. He did find an obvious scar in the second column, fourth row from the top. A perfect rectangle, big enough to cover a name. 

Bond moved to the last panel of the marble structure and stood in front of the last column. He absentmindedly ran his fingers over the letters carved into the wall.

‘Olivia Mansfield’ 

Now that she was dead her name was no longer a secret, her identity no longer a single letter. She had been Chief for so long that there were few, if any, employees still around who remembered the name she had used when she was working her way up the ranks, before she was promoted to Chief.

Mallory would be different. He was now known as M, but everyone in government knew the former Head of Security and Intelligence, knew his name. Most of the MI6 employees knew him as the man who had pulled M out of harm’s way at the hearing. He was a hero, his name splashed all over the media, all throughout the hallways of MI6. There was no way he could be anonymous.

Bond wondered if this was going to usher in a new era for MI6, one where the Chiefs might be addressed by a code name, but still used their given names.

He turned and looked at Tanner, who motioned him to come and sit next to him. As he approached, Tanner stood and shook his hand then moved over one chair, leaving his chair empty for Bond. They sat, Bond in between Tanner and Charlotte.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Bond,” she said, extending her hand. 

“Always nice to see you. How are you?” Bond asked, shaking her hand.

“Doing as well as can be expected. Some days are easier than others.” She lowered her head as if to hide tears.

“We start to clear out the house next week. Now that her will has been read, it’s time. Did you get your gift?”

The bulldog. 

“Yes, thank you for delivering it here.”

“It was a silly present from my dad a few Christmases ago. I can’t imagine why she gave it to you. There must be a message in there somewhere.”

“I’m sure there is, Charlotte.”

Bond felt a light touch on his right shoulder and looked up to see M standing behind him.

“Bond, when this is over, I need to see you,” he said quickly.

Bond nodded his head in acknowledgement. He would be up there as soon as this was over.

M went to the podium and turned on the microphone. Silence fell over the large crowd as he prepared to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen, today we are gathered here to honor and show respect to one of our fallen. You only knew her as ‘M’ and today you were told that her name was ‘Olivia Mansfield’.”

M looked down at Charlotte.

“It is my honor...”

M spoke for about 10 minutes, going in-depth into her career, from her first hiring as an analyst in the early ‘70s, to Hong Kong, and her eventual climb to the top spot. After that, he invited her children up to speak. Only Derek approached the podium, giving a quick ‘thank you, our mother would be honored’ speech before sitting back down.

Bond snickered and was surprised to hear Charlotte snickering softly as well.

“Yeah, she’d hate this. Would spend an hour chastising anyone who attempted such a thing while she was alive,” Charlotte whispered.

“Yes,” replied Bond. He knew that wherever she was, she was rolling her eyes and emphatically screaming ‘get back to work’. 

After the ceremony ended and the crowd dispersed, Charlotte touched Bond’s shoulder.

“Mr. Bond, can I meet you for drinks tonight?”

Bond was a bit shocked that she had asked. He almost said no but the sadness in her eyes made him rethink his answer.

They agreed to meet that night at a pub near M’s flat. Bond bid her farewell then went upstairs to meet with M. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Double-Oh Seven, there is some action going on in Barcelona concerning the Madigan Family. I want you to check it out,” said M, handing Bond his brief.

Bond opened the file and flipped through it. There wasn’t much there that he didn’t already know.

“Got it. I’ll leave tonight.”

“Wait until morning. I’ve got more reports to filter through and I want to give you everything,” M said. “I wish I had more to give you, but the more I find out about this group, the more I realize I don’t actually know.”

“That’s how such organizations exist, M. Keeping those that hunt them confused and on the chase,” said Bond. 

“We’ll find them,” he added.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thanks for coming to see me, Mr. Bond,” said Charlotte as he approached the table.

“Please, it’s James.”

She had arrived a few minutes before him and ordered some gin and tonics. Bond sipped his as Charlotte remained quiet in front of him. Bond watched her, knowing she had something to say and he was willing to give her the time and space to say it when she was ready.

As he looked at her features he realized how much she resembled her mother other than blue eyes: same cheekbones, same emotionless expression, same mannerisms as she took sips of her drink. 

Finally she spoke.

“I just wanted to ask you some questions.”

“Charlotte, you know my work, you know I can’t tell you anything,” he said quickly.

“No, not about work. I mean, about my mother. How she died. Tanner said you were with her,” she said, finally looking up at him.

“Yes, I was.”

“Was she in pain?”

“Yes. But she was strong and willing to do what it took to bring Silva down. But in the end, she just wasn’t strong enough.”

Bond wondered how much to actually tell Charlotte about her mother’s death. And what she had actually been told by MI6. He didn’t want to contradict the agency, tell her the truth after they had already told her a lie. That would be disrespectful to her and the memory of her mother.

“She died in my arms. It was very peaceful.”

He was trying to be reassuring, letting her know that her mother hadn’t died alone. She might have been cold, in pain, and on the floor of a dark, dirty chapel, but she was with someone who loved her.

Then Bond thought he should skip over that last part. 

“Did she say anything?”

“No,” Bond answered quickly, before his own emotions could betray him. He didn’t want to lie to her, but he also didn’t want her to know that her own mother’s last words were an acknowledgement that the only thing she had gotten right was Bond. 

Bond reached out and touched her hand. She responded by putting her other hand on his.

They sat like that for over an hour.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bond woke with a start, not sure of where he was. The surroundings looked familiar but he couldn’t place where he was. Then he heard soft breathing next to him. He turned his head slowly, afraid but at the same time excited at the thought of who was sleeping next to him.

Charlotte Mansfield.

And then he realized where he was.

M’s house. 

In the guest bedroom.

Bond replayed the previous hours in his head, trying not to forget anything. They had stayed at the pub for a few more hours, drinking more G&Ts before eating dinner. Then she suggested they go to her mother’s flat, have a look around. 

The house had been quiet, dark, and cold. Bond hadn’t liked it there, even after she had lit the fire and opened M’s best bottle of whisky. But they had sat on the couch, sipping the liquor, and talking. About her, about life, about things. 

Bond couldn’t remember when he had realized that he really liked her. And he also couldn’t remember when he had realized that he wanted to sleep with her. He had leaned over to kiss her and she had responded with a passion Bond had not expected. 

It didn’t take long before they had crept up the stairs and fallen onto the big bed in the guest bedroom. For hours they had touched and tasted each other’s bodies, finally reaching a frenzied climax before collapsing from exhaustion. 

Bond had enjoyed her, liked the way her body curved around his, the way her breath felt on his skin. He also remembered waking up at one point, cradling her the same way he had cradled M as she died. It was unsettling but strangely calming at the same time. 

Now he was awake. As he sat in the bed looking at her sleeping he suddenly had a cold realization.

He had fucked M’s daughter.

She was going to kill him.

Then he had another cold realization, this one hitting him in the gut and making him lean over in pain.

M was dead. She couldn’t kill him. And he couldn’t even mentally make a joke about her somehow finding a way to kill him anyway. She was gone. The way he was feeling at the moment was his new reality. Life without M. Dealing with things without M. Solving puzzles without M.

Then he remembered his latest puzzle that Mallory had given him after the service. If he was going to adjust to life without her, he was going to have to start now. In Barcelona.

He got out of bed quietly and picked his clothes up off the floor. He quickly dressed, leaned over Charlotte and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned and left the flat.

He never saw Charlotte again.


	6. Months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's now been a few months since M died in Bond's arms at Skyfall, and Bond is busier than ever trying to solve a case that had been on the fringe of MI6's radar long before she died. 
> 
> But had M known more than she had led Bond, or anyone else, to believe? 
> 
> There's a riddle, and Bond wants to solve it.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about,” James Bond reluctantly admitted to M. 

Not having an answer, even a snarky one, for the chief of MI6 was a new concept for Bond. In his years of being an operative, followed by 007 status, he’d always been able to give M an answer, even if it was something he made up and she didn’t want to hear.

But the new M wanted real answers. He didn’t have time for nonsense.

Bond’s trip to Barcelona three months prior had ended in disaster, with one civilian dead and several members of the Madigan family scattered and on the run but unfazed at MI6’s attempt to curb their desire for mayhem and chaos.

In the past few months the Madigans had left behind a long trail of cyber warfare that MI6’s techs, even the wizard Q, just couldn’t seem to get ahead of. Their tactics and procedures were off the charts, unpredictable, and always three steps ahead of MI6 and CIA agents.

Bond wondered sometimes if there was an insider at one of the intelligence agencies. He had bounced this theory off of Felix one night over beer while Bond was visiting him in Washington.

“Felix, there has to be a mole somewhere.”

“Can’t disagree with you there, brother. Just have to find him. Or her,” Felix said, smiling at Bond.

“What?” Bond asked, confused.

“You should just start fucking every woman in the CIA, find out which one is harboring secrets.”

“Already ahead of you, my brother. In fact, I’m two down and...what...65,000 more to go.”

But M wouldn’t be amused by Bond’s conquests, if they were thinly veiled as an investigative maneuver to uncover a snitch. 

“Bond, this case is more complicated than we realized. I want you to work more closely with Q, try and break into their computer system, their files, their network, whatever it takes,” Mallory said.

“If we could break into their system, we could get ahead of them,” Mallory continued. “Trouble is, I feel like the answer is right in front of us. We’ve been so close so many times. Q has been so close to getting into their systems, but then...nothing. Go see him. Go work on cracking the code,” Mallory said, waving his hand absentmindedly as he sat down.

Bond turned to leave. In the few months that Mallory had been Chief, Bond had learned his body language and waving his hand meant ‘leave’. And this M wasn’t one to argue with. Not yet, not until Bond had proved his worth to him, something he was trying hard to do.

But Bond had a question. He turned back on his heels, facing M.

“Do you think she knew?” James asked. “The code to break in. Do you think she knew?” 

He didn’t have to clarify who ‘she’ was. Mallory understood.

“She had to have known. There’s no way she didn’t.”

“I agree.”

“She left us the answer somewhere. She left us a message. We just have to find it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Bond sat in his apartment with only one lamp on. It was dark outside and his bottle of whisky was half empty. Or half full. He wasn’t sure.

They mystery of cracking the Madigan code was weighing heavily on his mind. There was a piece missing. Something that was obvious but unseen. What was it? Where was the answer?

Had M known the answer? Bond had no doubt that she had known and that she had left him a message somewhere. He just had to find it. He had looked here and there for it. Now he had to look harder for it.

He took another swig of the Macallan, feeling the burn of the whisky in his mouth, then down his throat. He was about to take another swig when a memory spring boarded into the front of his mind from somewhere in the back. 

‘It was a silly Christmas present from my dad. There has to be a message in there somewhere.’

Charlotte’s words crept through his mind, the words she had whispered to him at her mother’s memorial service at MI6 headquarters. 

Bond sat up, sloshing the whisky in his glass, both Mallory’s and Charlotte’s words intermingling in his mind.

‘She left us a message.’ 

‘There has to be a message in there somewhere.’

He remembered Charlotte’s words clearly. He remembered the whole day: the memorial wall with an old name scratched off at the beginning and one new name added at the end; the service that would have made M angry had she been there; drinks with Charlotte at the pub; the feel of her skin against his. 

Bond didn’t allow himself to believe what he thought might be true until he started weaving other pieces of information into Charlotte’s statement.

The bulldog had been damaged in the explosion at MI6 headquarters. So had a lot of other office items. She hadn’t bothered to recover any of those other items in her office, even personal ones. Her desk, chair, books, even her computer, had been destroyed or thrown away. 

But the bulldog she had asked for from the recovery crew. She had gotten in back in pieces and then painstakingly glued it back together. Bond never thought to question her actions but now he did. Why would M, head of MI6, take the time to glue back together a worthless porcelain statue? Even though her husband had given it to her, surely there must be other things he had given her that she cherished more, considering the number of years they were married. 

And then she had given it to Bond in her will, startling everyone, including her children. 

But it hadn’t startled Bond. He hadn’t necessarily expected it, but when Moneypenny handed it to him on that cold morning, he hadn’t been surprised. 

He knew at that time it was a message from her. A message only he understood. 

But he now realized that he had read the wrong message from her gift. He had told Moneypenny that it was M’s way of telling him to keep going, not to give up, not to slow down just because things had turned out badly. 

But now he knew that wasn’t her intent. He now understand that she had had a critical piece of information to something but didn’t quite understand to what, exactly. And she needed to keep it safe, and ultimately give it to someone who would figure it out. Dead or alive, she knew that she had to get the message to Bond. 

He stood up and took three large strides to reach the bookshelf on the far side of the room. He’d stashed the bulldog on the top shelf, only glancing at it when he sat in the chair directly across from it, the only place in the room he could really see it from.

He grabbed it and looked at the glued seams, now brown with age. He stared at the piece for almost five minutes, knowing that he was about to lose his one last connection to M. His one last physical link to Olivia Mansfield. 

He finally got the nerve and smashed the bulldog, hitting it on the corner of the bookshelf just at the joint of its neck and shoulders. Shards went in all directions with major chunks of porcelain clattering to the floor.

He watched as a small bundle of cloth tumbled out of the hollow body of the bulldog and landed on the floor with a muddled ‘thump’. As he watched the object fall he was amazed at how she had foreseen the direction the mission would turn long after her death, had foreseen that one day he would think to look at her gift with different eyes and see what it was she was really trying to tell him. 

He picked up the bundle and started unwrapping the cloth. It was soft cotton cloth, probably from an old shirt. He then reached a layer of cotton balls. He brushed the cotton balls away and was left holding a small, non-descript piece of metal, about 2 inches long. It was smooth on two sides. On the other two sides it was bumpy…a definite pattern of lines, bumps and holes had been cut into the metal. 

Code. 

Bond grabbed his coat and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“It is code, Bond, I just need time to decipher and decrypt it,” said Q, holding the tiny piece of metal in his hand.

Q had spent the better part of two hours with M’s gift to Bond and was well on his way to figuring out how to use it to solve the riddles in this particular mission. 

“Bond, where did you get this?” M asked, his eyes wide with disbelief. 

“M gave it to me.”

Mallory’s head shot up quickly at his words.

“Excuse me?”

“I got it from M. She left it to me in her will. She knew she had something valuable regarding the Madigans, but she just didn’t know what it was or how to use it. So she left it to me.”

“She…just…left you this piece of metal?”

The two men were standing to the side of Q’s elaborate workstation, trying to stay out of his way but also trying to get the answers they needed. 

Bond had arrived back at headquarters and found Q just ready to go home for the night. Bond was impressed with the young man’s ability to verify that the markings on the two sides of the piece of metal were a code and that the code might be able to aid them in breaking into the Madigan’s computer system. 

Bond then called Mallory and told him everything. Mallory appeared within 20 minutes, with Bill Tanner in tow. 

“It was in the bulldog.”

“The bulldog?”

“The statue that sat on her desk, with the British flag on its back.”

“I don’t remember it,” M said.

Tanner cracked up at M’s words, knowing how much she had loved that piece of porcelain, how she had moved it around on her desk according to her mood, how she had asked about it after the explosion. The official name of the bulldog was ‘Jack’ but Tanner had silently called it ‘Bugger’. After Bond and maybe even himself, it seemed to be the only thing in the office she actually cared about. 

“She left it to me in her will. I knew she was trying to tell me something. I just always thought it was something else.”

Mallory looked at Bond and for an instant saw grief and sadness over the death of his boss, mentor, and friend. 

A shout from Q cut into the moment. 

“I’m in!”

“Well then, let’s go and get these fuckers,” said Mallory, still looking directly at Bond.

“With pleasure, M. With pleasure.”


	7. Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The years are passing since M died at Skyfall and Bond has accepted that life goes on, even after tragedy has struck and grief is a part of your life. 
> 
> And life does go on, even at MI6.

5 Years

 

“Bond, it’s Felix.”

Bond had answered the phone as he sat in his recliner, mindlessly watching television, some stupid show on BBC 4. Once he heard his CIA counterpart’s voice on the line he was instantly alert. 

“Hello brother, what’s going on,” Bond said.

“Bond, I just wanted you to hear this from me. Director Smithson died this afternoon.”

Bond sat up with a start.

“Felix I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Car accident. Drunk driver. Part of me says it was a random event. Part of me thinks that it’s a Silva-like situation, someone from his past, someone who had it out for him.”

Bond could hear the pain in Felix’s voice. He knew Felix still called Ian Smithson ‘Director’, even though he hadn’t held that title in three years. And he knew that Felix had kept in touch with him.

Ian Smithson had left CIA two years after her death. A presidential appointee, once the Americans elected a new president it didn’t take long for the new incumbent to make it clear she wanted her own intelligence advisor. 

Bond himself had only seen Smithson a few times after M’s funeral. They interacted on a few joint CIA-MI6 missions together but nothing in-depth and mostly over some form of communication system. Bond sometimes felt that Ian avoided him, blaming him for her death. He briefly thought about the night he had dinner with him at her house. The strain, the sadness, the grief. 

“I just can’t prove anything,” Felix continued. 

“Will there be a funeral?”

“Yes, Saturday. Will you come?” 

“Of course,” Bond said, without hesitation. He had respected Ian, respected his work. He also knew that M’s death had broken the man. 

Like her death had broken Bond. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

7 Years

 

“I don’t know how she did it, Bond, for so many years,” M said. “I can no longer deal with the stress. Everyone at me all the time, not understanding what we do, why we have to do things a certain way.”

Bond smirked at M’s words, knowing that ‘why we have to do things a certain way’ was an allusion to Bond blowing up yet another embassy. This time looking not for one bomb maker, but for a kidnapper and murderer. 

“Bloody hell,” M continued. “I’m retiring. That’s what I came here to tell you.”

Bond was shocked at the man’s words. He couldn’t believe that Mallory was retiring at such an early age. But he had noticed in the past few months that M was clearly stressed to the point where he could no longer function in the job. He was slipping up in the minor details. The details that could get a Double-Oh killed.

Over the years, Mallory had told Bond many times in confidence that he couldn’t figure out how she had stayed in the office for 17 years, dealing with the bureaucracy, the craziness, the fear. 

But he had never included ‘I’m retiring’ in those conversations. 

“Mallory, I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing to say, Bond. In two months there will be a new Chief.”

Bond nodded his head in agreement, then watched as M turned and walked back towards his office. He then wondered who that new Chief would be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

20 Years

 

As he looked in the mirror to check his suit, Bond found it hard to believe that twenty years had passed since her death. Despite the passage of time, he still thought of her every day. Her ghost haunted the hallways of MI6 and followed him as he walked around the building, going from room to room. He still pictured her in her old office on a regular basis, sitting behind her desk with papers or a mobile in her hand, even though the office had gone through several chiefs and almost as many renovations. 

The semi-circular office on the 7th floor at MI6 had never really gone back to being ‘her’ office. After the explosion the repairs had resulted in some subtle changes in the configuration of the Chief’s office. The windows were a different shape, the floor was a different color. But those changes had seemed to fit Mallory, the successor to the position. 

As Bond had predicted at the memorial wall ceremony, the MI6 Chiefs that had followed her had used a letter code as their name but had not given up their real names. It was only tradition now, a show of respect for the office and not a form of security required for his or her protection. Olivia Mansfield had been the last in a long line of Chiefs who had led the agency anonymously. 

So much had changed in the past 20 years. Bill Tanner had left not long after Mallory had resigned, unable to cope with yet another new boss. He was now working in insurance, a slow, steady job that allowed him to leave work at a decent hour and not be on call 24 hours a day. He and Bond often had lunch together, or went out on Friday or Saturday night, crawling through London’s pubs until they closed. Their conversations about her started to dwindle after a few years. Eventually they didn’t mention her at all. 

Q was also gone, lured away by bigger money at a large tech firm. Bond wondered sometimes if the unseen enemy on the other side of cyber space they often dealt with was Q. 

Still staring at his reflection in the mirror, he briefly thought back to the emotions that had shot through him as he felt her life slipping away so long ago, as he had watched Death pull on her, eventually winning the tug-of-war that Bond was waging. 

Anger, dread, sadness. After all these years he still felt those, on a diminished scale. The only thing he still felt full throttle was cold. His life had been cold since that day and he had never again been truly warm inside, no matter how much whisky he poured in his glass, no matter how much wood he put on the fire, no matter how many women he held against his body for warmth.

Bond was still with MI6 but long retired from his position as a Double-Oh. He’d tried deskwork and analysis but found both mind numbing and not for him. Eventually he had requested and become an instructor for agent recruits. A sort of military basic training drill sergeant. He helped select the candidates and then ran them mercilessly through weeks of intense training, specifically designed to weed out those who would never survive life as an agent in the Secret Intelligence Service, much less achieve the status of Double-Oh. 

Twice a year for eight years he had gone through the pick-train-graduate cycle and had seen some possibilities to replace him and the other Double-Ohs that had come and gone through the years. Sadly, most had not made it through the training, unable to keep up with the brutality that Bond and the other trainers had thrown at them. Bond showed no one any compassion. 

The current crop of trainees had a few bright spots, a few men and women who might actually fit the standards required by MI6. By Bond. 

To protect their identities, the recruits didn’t use their names during selection and training, only a randomly assigned number drawn from a computer during the first round of selection. There were only two people in the recruiting office who knew real names and they were sworn to secrecy. Even Bond didn’t know their names, despite his past history of hacking a file to find out what he wasn’t supposed to know. He didn’t care as much as he had with her.

Number 27 had proven to be an all-around excellent trainee. He didn’t excel in one field and paddle along in the others like many of the other trainees. Instead, he was in the top 5% in all of the events and classes. Never the best, just very good at everything. He had shown some real talent and natural instincts that could never be taught, had seemed to be able to put things together and see things that other trainees couldn’t. These were the traits that would keep him, and his fellow agents, alive in the real world. In the field. 

Bond had high hopes for him.

It was graduation day. The closed ceremony was over and now they could stop using numbers for identification. They had earned their right to be addressed by their own name. They also wouldn’t start at MI6 for 2 weeks, giving them time to accept their fate. To quit if they needed. He saw Number 27 in the auditorium, putting on his jacket. Bond approached the young man and extended his hand.

“Congratulations, Number 27, on a job well done,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. But I’m not Number 27 anymore,” he said softly, lowering his eyes away from Bond’s.

“What is your name?” Bond asked, curious as to why the young man was suddenly so shy, why he felt the need to break eye contact. He had just see this young man show confidence and leadership in intensive training so it was unusual to see him lower his head.

But then he raised his head, looked Bond straight in the eyes and spoke in a clear, strong voice.

“Oscar Mansfield.”

Bond’s heart thumped at the sound of the name, so familiar. Bond glared at the young man in shock. 

“She was my grandmother,” the young man said to Bond’s reaction, then once again lowered his eyes. 

In an instant he was transported back to the cold gray day of her funeral and meeting the confused boy who kept hearing his grandmother’s name but couldn’t find her, no matter how hard he looked. 

“I know. I met you. At her funeral,” Bond said.

“I don’t remember. But my mother told me about you. She said...” his voice stammered off.

Bond waited. He couldn’t remember what he had told Charlotte so long ago. He had never called her after leaving her at M’s flat. And, to her credit, she had never tried to contact him.

“...she said that my grandmother died in your arms.”

For a split-second Bond was back in that dark, cold chapel, lit only by the fire burning his boyhood home to the ground. He was cradling her in his arms, in his mind begging her to live. He was surprised at how vividly he could picture her last moments, hear her voice as she spoke her last words, and feel her last breath, almost as if only a few days had passed instead of twenty years.

‘At least I got one thing right.’

“Yes. It was the worse day of my life. And twenty years ago today.”

Bond looked into the young man’s eyes and could now see the blue, so like his mother’s. So like his grandmother’s. His respect for the young man doubled as he realized what he had carried with him during training, never once letting on who he was, or that he knew Bond, one of his trainers, was with his grandmother the night she had died.

At that moment Bond knew that his work at MI6 was done. There was nothing more for him to do. The building, the hallways, the employees, held nothing for him anymore. He knew that it was time for him to run and hide, to live out his days on a beach on a semi-deserted island somewhere, drinking heavily and fucking those who would still have him. Time to let the young ones take over.

Bond extended his hand once again.

“Good luck, Oscar Mansfield.” 

Bond turned and, instead of taking his usual path and walking deeper into MI6, walked out of the building for the last time. 

Oscar Mansfield also turned, but walked in the other direction, deeper into MI6, stopping at the memorial wall so he could touch her name. He was happy that his training to become an operative in his grandmother’s agency had started well. He didn’t need to two weeks to change his mind. He was proud to be her grandson, proud to have her name, proud to serve King and country. 

He walked toward his dream of becoming an agent. Becoming a Double-Oh.

Becoming M.


End file.
